


Touch

by msgenevieve



Series: Trick of the Light [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, F/M, Happy Ending, non-epilogue compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-31
Updated: 2006-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She can't stop touching him, and she can't stop herself from trying to imagine how he'd looked before he'd surrendered his body to the blueprints of his brother's salvation.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This is for catsbycat who happened to say the words "epilogue to [Trick of the Light](http://www.prisonbreakfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=641&warning=NC-17)" to me when I was having a weak moment. I'm sure it's much shorter than you had in mind, but hey, it's a start.

__

It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

 

~*~

 

She can't stop touching him.

Not the tattooed canvas of his chest and back and arms - she's explored and had most of its mysteries explained to her – but the flawless expanse of skin that hadn't been required for his grand plan.

In public, her fingertips seem to act of their own accord, brushing the backs of his hands, the nape of his neck, the paler skin inside his wrists - silent, secret touches that earn her a slow, knowing smile and only serve to sharpen the hunger that hums between them.

In private, she's far less discreet. She skims her hands lightly over the tops of his tanned feet, the lean length of his calves and thighs, the hard curve of his bottom, the physician in her giving a name to each muscle as she touches them. _Biceps femoris. Gluteus maximus. Transversus abdominis._ Her hands and her body don't bother with such educated things - all they know is the feel of him, the brush of his skin against hers in the darkness – but her mind still feels the need to catalogue and identify. And perhaps, she admits reluctantly, the need to claim them as her own.

She can't stop touching him, and she can't stop herself from trying to imagine how he'd looked before he'd surrendered his body to the blueprints of his brother's salvation. And, as much as she tries to suppress the feeling, some small part of her resents the fact she will never know him as he once was.

On their third night in London, he turns to her with dark, serious eyes. "May I ask you something?"

She stretches lazily, tangling her legs with his. "Of course."

"Do the tattoos bother you?"

Her pulse is still thick and sluggish, her skin still shimmering with arousal, but she returns his gaze steadily. "Why?" It isn't the first time he's asked her this question, and she wonders if he will keep asking her until she gives him the answer he really wants. _Whatever that might be_, she muses silently. She doubts if even he knows what he needs to hear.

He looks down at her hand, which is currently etching lazy patterns on his tanned, tattoo-free thigh, and she knows that he's noticed her fascination with his unmarked skin. "Just a hunch."

She feels a flush creep over her face. _Damn it_. Not for the first time, she silently rues the sixth sense he seems to possess when it comes to her. "They don't bother me." She dips her head to press a lingering kiss to the hilt of the demon's sword that sits below his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin with her tongue. "I've seen them more than I've seen the rest of you, that's all." She presses her teeth gently against his skin, enjoying the subtle shudder that runs through him, then lifts her head to look at him. "They've been part of you as long as I've known you," she murmurs, ghosting her fingertips across his chest as she struggles to find the words to explain, "and sometimes I can't help trying to picture what you looked like without them."

"There are times when I can't remember." His hand comes up tangle itself in her hair, then he stretches out his other arm, studying it dispassionately. "Even if I have them removed, they'll always be there," he says softly, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. "I'll still see them."

Something tightens inside her chest. "I know." She rests her head on his shoulder, leaning backwards into the curve of his arm so she can see his face. "How do you feel about that?" She sounds like a damned shrink, she knows, but she's not letting this conversation slip through her fingers.

He shrugs. "They used to brand criminals, back in the day." The words are tinged with a bitterness at odds with the weary smile that quirks his lips. "So they'd carry the stigma of their crimes for the rest of their lives."

"Is that how you see these?" She reaches across his body to curl her hand around his elbow, rubbing her thumb over the deck of playing cards fanned out across his skin. "A modern day mark of Cain?"

His smile fades. "Maybe."

She shakes her head. "I seem to remember the story was that Cain murdered his brother." He stares at her in the half-light, his expression softening only when she reaches up to touch his face, curving her palm around his whisker-roughened jaw. "You saved yours."

Entangled with him as she is, she feels as well as hears his slow exhalation of breath. "You never told me you were such a diligent bible student," he says lightly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to her palm.

The scrape of his whiskered chin sends a wave of gooseflesh up her arm, raising every single tiny hair on her skin. "Well, I was a good girl when I was at school." Giving him a smile, she shifts closer, her hand splayed low on his stomach, her thumb idly circling his navel. "Back in the day, as the saying goes."

"Is that so?" The corners of his mouth twitch, the darkness in his eyes replaced by a glint of something quite different. "My, how times change."

Much later, after he has fallen asleep – easily, for a change, it seems - she lies awake, listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing. Her body is wrapped almost protectively around his, her bare breasts against his back, her thighs curved around his, her hand resting lightly on his hip. In the darkness, the smooth heat of his body pressed against her, she can no longer tell the difference between inked and unadorned skin, between the man he once was and the man he has become.

And she's glad.

 

~*~


End file.
